During President Obama’s first term, something happened that put black women’s bodies in the spotlight: First Lady Michelle Obama announced her Let’s Move campaign, which aimed to reduce obesity by educating kids on the importance of exercising and eating right. While the launch of the program had its share of successes and missteps, it also had another, more surprising consequence: It opened the door for many to comment on Michelle Obama's body. The criticisms were swift: Suddenly, pundits were discussing whether she was too muscular, too big, or too lean. Others said her shoulders were too broad or her derrière was too wide. Her body, almost overnight, fell under intense scrutiny.

The same could be said for black women as a whole.

Around that same time, it seemed like everyone wanted to join the debate over our bodies and our health. In 2012, The New York Times published an op-ed that sought to answer the question of “Why Black Women Are Fat.” The same year, the Washington Post published an article that seemed to express shock that black women could be “heavier and happier with their bodies than white women,” and therefore that they could work out for their health and not to get skinnier. Surgeon General Regina Benjamin (a black woman herself) repeated another shameful stereotype about black women, implying that we were too vain to sweat and run the risk of ruining our hair after spending hours to straighten it flawlessly.

As a black woman working in the fitness industry, I am all too familiar with people making assumptions about my health based off how my body looks.

I have my own successful weight loss story, which I eventually turned into a career—and every step of the way, someone doubted me and questioned my presence as a fitness professional or a thought leader in the industry because of the way I looked. I wasn’t built like a bodybuilder with a lean physique and a visible six-pack—I had, and still do have, curves. I was putting in the work to better my health, yet people assumed that wasn’t the case since my body didn’t look like the mainstream ideal of “wellness.”

People frequently assume black women aren’t taking care of themselves or working toward improving their fitness because many are curvy and plus-sized instead of lean and chiseled. The argument is that plus-size women are not working hard enough if they’re still plus-sized—and that’s bullshit. I understand the importance of losing weight to improve health, but I also know that what constitutes “overweight” and “obese” is based off a highly scrutinized BMI scale that doesn’t take into account if your weight comes from muscle mass or fat. I also know that you can never tell how healthy or fit someone is just from looking at them.

When I first started working out, I wasn’t running marathons—I was walking to the grocery store instead of driving. I wasn’t lifting 45-pound plates in a gym, grunting like an animal—I was doing push-ups against a wall at home, or working out at the gym in solitude after hours. Even when I first started running, there were times when I’d run, and times when I’d stop and walk. Which I suppose made it look like I wasn’t working out. I also suppose that because my body was curvy, I didn’t look like a regular exerciser, either. But I was. I was out there working hard toward my goal and doing my best, despite what other people may have assumed.

The most glorious parts of my fitness journey were the thousands of little victories I experienced along the way. The day I could stand up without having to use my hands to help push me upwards, I cried when I realized what had happened. The day I could squat down to tie my daughter’s shoes and get up without using my hands or wobbling, I smiled inside. And the day that I jogged 10 miles home because I had to return my moving truck and forgot to actually figure out how I’d get home after? I cheered so loudly for myself that I went hoarse.

And I experienced every one of those joys as a clinically overweight woman.

Black women are working out and working toward their health and fitness goals. If you can’t see it, it’s because they don’t feel comfortable where you are.

I frequently tell the story of attending a fitness conference, and being approached by a man who then sought to praise me for being there—as if that was his responsibility, or if that was warranted—because he “never sees black women working out anywhere.”

That man annoyed me, but his faulty logic annoyed me even more. I couldn’t resist.

I asked him, without a trace of attitude, “What do you mean you don’t see black women working out anywhere?” He told me, “I’m just saying, I see white women out here grinding it out, killing it, and I don’t see black women.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a trainer and as a student of incredible trainers, it’s this: If you don’t see black women working out where you are, and you know black women live in your community, it’s because they don’t feel comfortable where you are. They don't want to gawked at and singled out, to be the subject of the crudely realized musings of a stranger, as is so often the case. How willing would you be to go to a space if that’s the feeling you anticipate?

Black women are no different from any other women. We want to be healthy, we connect with resources, and we try our best.

When that man told me he “doesn’t see black women anywhere,” he reached out and handed me his card and ask for mine. I stared at him for a second, a look of confusion on my face, before asking him, “Are you sure? Because I see black women working out everywhere.”

I see them walking in their neighborhoods, jogging on my street. I see them at 7 A.M., when I’m walking my daughter to school, in the park in large groups getting in a pre-work exercise class. I constantly see flyers in local schools for exercise groups. Local community centers are full of women taking on their wellness journeys together, sometimes looking like fitness stars, sometimes not—but always looking like women giving it their all and doing their best. Just because you can’t recognize it doesn’t mean they don’t live it.

He cut me off midsentence, to let me know he’d “connect with me on Facebook.” He assured me, “Girl, I’m everywhere.” I replied, “If you aren’t seeing black women, you couldn’t be,” while I gathered my things to leave. I caught a glimpse of him pulling up my Facebook page, full of thousands of women, the overwhelming majority being black, dedicated to learning more about living a healthier life. All with varying body sizes and shapes, all eager to incorporate more fitness and wellness in their day-to-day lives.

This man, at the conference to sell his wares, realized he’d potentially upset someone who could help him grow his business by connecting him with women who were interested in being healthy, and called after me. He realized far too late.

Erika Nicole Kendall is a NASM-certified personal trainer with specializations in women’s fitness, weight loss, and fitness nutrition; a certified nutrition coach through Precision Nutrition; and the founder of A Black Girl's Guide to Weight Loss, where she blogs about her personal weight-loss journey and gives exercise and healthy eating tips for weight loss.